Lost Boy
by Esther Huffleclaw
Summary: All Steve remembers is that there was something about a plane. And Bucky—he remembers Bucky.
1. En Passant

Steve opened his eyes slowly. The world was spinning around him, all green and brown and blue and bright, and it took him a moment to realize that he was lying flat on his back. Then the green and brown above him formed itself into tree branches and the blue snapped into place higher up as the sky, and he blinked. What had happened?

The last thing he remembered was the plane. He'd been flying somewhere… but the rest of the memory danced away from him, laughing. God, his head hurt. He sat up and pressed his palms into his eyes, trying to push the pain away, but it throbbed insistently against the inside of his skull. He hadn't had a headache like this since before the serum.

The serum—he latched onto that memory like it was a life preserver. There was a plane crash. And then he woke up here… no—he'd been piloting the plane that crashed, but he distinctly remembered sitting comfortably in a private jet just before he woke up here. Howard's jet? He shook his head, and groaned when the pain rose up and slapped him at the movement.

One thing was for sure: he wasn't dead. The pain told him that, at least. Clenching his jaw, he pushed himself to his feet, pushing the pain away like he always did back when he didn't heal inhumanly fast. Spots danced in his vision and he blinked several times to dispel them, scanning his surroundings and brushing dirt and leaves from his t-shirt and jeans.

He'd been lying under a large tree whose branches spread out over a swath of clear ground, stretching out towards the edge of a forest all around. Beside him, a concrete well rose from the leaf-strewn ground, like something out of a postcard. He took a step, and it all swirled around him, threatening to throw him to his knees. Grabbing the edge of the well, he bent his head and closed his eyes, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

He remembered this kind of pain and sickness from before, but he was no longer used to it. How long had it been since he'd felt weak? Opening his eyes, he found himself gazing into the dark depths of the well. The rough roof blocked most of the sunlight that managed to sneak through the branches, and it appeared bottomless, like an opening into the underworld.

Stepping back, he turned away, moving slowly to keep the spinning under control. His eyes on his feet, he carefully put one foot in front of the other, with no notion of where he was going or which way he should choose. He was from Brooklyn; he had no idea how to navigate in the woods.

As this realization struck him, he stopped, swaying on his feet as if in a wind, though the air was still and heavy with damp and the mustiness of dead and dying leaves. He slowly raised his eyes to the treeline before him—and froze, hardly daring to breathe. A figure stood at the edge of the trees, half-turned as if arrested in midstep, clothed in a long black coat with a dark red scarf knotted about his neck.

But it was the face under the mop of disheveled dark hair that snatched the breath from Steve's lungs. When last he had looked into those eyes, he had been hanging on the outside of a train on the edge of a cliff, and then he had watched his friend fall, knowing he would never see him again. "Bucky?" he whispered, and his voice was raw and harsh as if he hadn't spoken in ages.

"Well, hello." His voice was wrong somehow, and there was no recognition in his eyes. He turned fully toward Steve, his hands tucked into the deep pockets of his coat, and sauntered closer. A smile that didn't reach his eyes played about the corners of his mouth. "Who's 'Bucky'?"

Steve gazed into the stormy depths of those eyes he knew better than he knew his own, and he felt his precarious anchor on the unstable earth slip. He remembered nothing but Bucky now: stepping in to help when Steve got himself into fights, setting Steve up on dates when girls didn't want to talk to him, always there for him. Even when he had nothing, he had Bucky.

He took a step forward and nearly fell, and Bucky was there to catch him—as he always was. Steadying Steve with one hand on his shoulder and one on his other arm, Bucky raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips in amusement. "Steady there. Wow. Do your _muscles _have muscles?" He stepped back and slipped his hands into his pockets again. "Now, who are you?"

Steve swallowed thickly, trying to find some moisture in the desert his mouth had become. Had Bucky always smelled like tea? "Steve," he whispered. "Steve Rogers."

"My name's Jefferson." Bucky spread his arms wide and bent his head in a half-bow. Straightening up, he tilted his head to the side and studied Steve. "So, what happened to you?"

"I—I don't remember." Jefferson? Who the hell was Jefferson?

Bucky tipped his head back and laughed a short humourless laugh. "Trust me, friend: remembering's a curse."


	2. Bare King

The sun had slipped below the horizon, casting shadows that stretched out wispy fingers as Bucky half-led, half-carried Steve up a curving driveway toward a huge house. Steve stumbled against the edge of a rough brick wall, his fingers sliding across the number 316. The fading light eased the pounding in his skull, but the dizziness still came and went in waves.

"Careful." Bucky's voice floated out of the shadows beside Steve, his arm tightening around Steve's middle. "Almost there."

Steve squinted through the darkness at the house. It was really more of a mansion. "Is that _your _house?"

Bucky snorted a dark, cynical chuckle. "In a way, yes."

Steve frowned as Bucky dragged him between two slender white pillars and fumbled at the door with his free hand. Bucky had never owned a house, especially not one this grand. Bucky was dead. Was Steve dead now, too? He had expected heaven to be nicer, though.

Bucky deposited Steve on a white leather couch and crouched by a fireplace to stir up the flames. Steve rested his head against the back of the couch. He wanted to close his eyes and escape into the oblivion of sleep, but there were too many questions bouncing around his brain. He stared at the back of Bucky's head, trying to decide which one to ask first.

As if he sensed Steve's scrutiny, Bucky turned his head, peering up at him thoughtfully. "Can I make you some tea?"

Steve started to shake his head, then remembered that was a bad idea, and lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug. "I don't—I really need to find out what happened to me."

Bucky stood up and turned around in one smooth motion that set the world spinning around Steve again. "I think that can wait, don't you? Look at you." He waved a hand at Steve. "You need to rest and recover. Stay there." He strode past Steve and out of the room, his long coat swirling around him.

Steve closed his eyes, the frantic questions fading into a kaleidoscope of colour, then a misty grey, then black. He slept.

When he woke, he was curled up on his side on the couch, a dark red pillow under his cheek and a soft white blanket draped over him. He raised his head and, to his relief, the pain and dizziness had fled. Bucky sat in an armchair that matched the couch, fingers steepled under his nose, elbows resting on his knees, watching him through narrowed eyes. He had removed the coat at some point, and his black pants and charcoal grey shirt contrasted sharply with the white chair and carpet. On the low table between them, a white china teapot steamed happily beside two cups.

Steve sat up and ran a hand through his hair, meeting Bucky's gaze then looking away. There was a strange intensity in those familiar blue eyes, and yet not a hint of recognition. He modified his theory from before: if this was heaven, it sure felt a lot like the other place. "Bucky—?"

"Who _are _you?" Bucky cut him off. He sat up straight and waved a hand in a cutting motion. "I know. I know. Your name is Steve Rogers. But…" He cocked his head to one side. "Really, who are you?"

Steve rubbed one hand down the side of his face. "You know me."

Bucky shook his head, and laughed sharply and without humour. "No, I don't." He leaned back in the chair, steepling his fingers again, and tapping them against his lower lip. "I remember everything else; I think I would remember you."

Steve gestured helplessly. "You've known me your whole life."

Bucky raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips, eyeing Steve skeptically over his steepled fingers.

"Your name is James Buchanan Barnes." Steve wrapped his hands into the folds of the blanket. "You're my friend."

Bucky dropped his hands in his lap and stared at Steve, an incredulous smile on his lips. "You're mad." He sounded delighted.

Steve shook his head stubbornly. "I'm not crazy. This is real."

The smile fell from Bucky's face and he leaned forward again, his eyes narrowed. "You really think you know me, don't you?"

"I don't think—I know." Steve held Bucky's gaze, his fingers twisted in the blanket in his lap. "I don't remember what happened to me or how I got here, but I remember you."

Bucky opened his mouth, closed it, and nodded slowly. "Memory is a funny thing, Steve." He waved a hand at the window that looked out on a slowly brightening morning. "If you were to ask anyone else in this town—besides the mayor—they'd tell you I'm mad because I remember things they don't." His lips curved in that smile that didn't reach his eyes. "If they're feeling charitable, they might say I'm eccentric." He raised an eyebrow and added in a stage whisper, "By which they mean 'mad'."

Leaping to his feet, Bucky strode across the white carpet to stand at the window, the rising sun silhouetting him against the glass, a black shadow in the shape of a man. He rested one hand on a telescope, his lips twisting into a grimace. "Do you know what it's like to have what you love ripped from you?" He turned around. "Take a look." He nodded toward the polished bronze scope that glowed softly in the golden light.

Steve rose slowly, almost expecting the room to tilt around him again, but everything stayed firmly where it was meant to be. Yes, he knew what that was like—his heart clenched painfully at the memory of reaching out for his friend, and not catching him. Bucky had always protected him and, when it was his turn, he had failed. He bent to the eyepiece. Framed in the view, a little girl with golden hair sat at breakfast with her parents, laughing at something. He frowned, raising his head to meet Bucky's eyes again.

"Her name is Grace," Bucky answered the unspoken question. He fluttered his free hand. "Here it's Paige, but it's Grace." His fingers tightened on the telescope. "My daughter."

Steve stared at Bucky, his mind whirling like a lighted carousel. "You have a daughter?"

With a sharp laugh, Bucky turned away and stared out the window. "I _had _a daughter. She has no idea who I am. I do. That's my curse."

"But—" Steve shook his head in a vain attempt to find some sense in this situation. Questions wrestled each other for first place inside his head, tangling his tongue and nearly choking him.

"You see, Steve," Bucky said quietly, still staring at the other house, "I know what it's like to remember, to _know_, something everyone else has forgotten." He turned his head, his painfully familiar eyes meeting Steve's. "I'm not Bucky. I'm sorry." He shrugged, a smile playing at his lips that almost reached his eyes. "I almost wish I was."

* * *

_Note: "Bare king" is a position in chess in which a king is the only man of its colour on the board._


	3. Castling

The rich chimes of a bell echoed through the house, and Bucky grimaced and turned on his heel. "Wait right here," he called back over his shoulder as he left the room.

As if Steve had anywhere else to go. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and leaned against the windowsill, watching the rising sun slowly spread across the grounds. The murmur of voices from elsewhere in the house drifted to his ears, soft and indistinguishable at first, then sharper and louder.

"You're watching me now?" That was Bucky, and he sounded disgusted and angry, but not surprised. The other voice was softer, and Steve couldn't make out the response, and then Bucky said, "I wouldn't be surprised if you had something to do with it. You usually do have your fingers in everything that happens around here, after all."

No longer willing to wait quietly, Steve pushed himself off the wall and followed Bucky out of the living room and into a vaulted front hall complete with a sweeping staircase and glittering chandelier.

The front door stood open, and a middle-aged man with longish brown hair was framed in the opening, leaning on an ornate cane. He looked up at Steve, and his smile sent a cold chill down Steve's spine. "Good afternoon." He stepped forward, lifting one hand from his cane and reaching out to clasp Steve's hand. "Jefferson was just telling me about how he found you in the forest last night."

Bucky rolled his eyes theatrically. "Yes," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "That's what I said." He waved a hand toward Steve, then the visitor. "Steve Rogers; Mr Gold." He turned on his heel, and went back into the living room, gesturing expansively toward the white furniture. "Have a seat, why don't you?" He picked up the white china teapot and filled both cups.

Mr Gold settled himself into the armchair and eyed Steve thoughtfully as he sat back down on the couch. Bucky handed them each a cup, then swept out of the room again, returning shortly with a third teacup for himself, and taking a seat next to Steve on the couch. "Sugar?" he asked brightly. "Cream? Lemon? A beheading?"

Ignoring Bucky, Gold rested his cane against the arm of the chair and cradled the cup gently in his long fingers. "So, Mr Rogers? Where are you from?"

Steve took a sip of tea, then stared at the golden liquid in his cup. "Brooklyn." He forced himself to loosen his grip on the cup, afraid he would crush the delicate porcelain. He wasn't sure he should trust this man with his sharp brown eyes that watched him in much the same way a cat watched a mouse. Also, it was painfully obvious that Bucky didn't like Gold, and that was enough for Steve to dislike him too. Yet, he needed more information, and he couldn't stop himself from poking at the gaps in his memory like you would tongue at a missing tooth. It was going to sound strange, but he had to ask. "What—what year is it?"

Bucky's sardonic laugh was starting to grate on Steve's nerves. "That's an excellent question, Steve."

Gold sipped his tea, watching Steve over the rim of the cup. "Why do you ask?"

Steve reached out and carefully placed his cup on the coffee table, then clasped his hands together to keep them steady. He had expected another declaration that he was mad, not evasive answers. This was starting to feel like it had happened before. "Where am I?"

"You're in a town called Storybrooke, Maine," Gold replied, an edge to his voice. "And you didn't answer my question, dearie."

Steve clenched his jaw, and raised his eyes to meet Gold's. He was tired of being kept in the dark, and he really didn't think he needed to answer to this nosy man with all his questions. "Where am I really?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand, Mr Rogers." Gold's voice had chilled to something just barely polite, yet coated with a thick layer of frost.

"You want me to answer your questions, maybe you could try answering mine." Steve matched Gold's glare with his own, refusing to back down. He never had liked bullies.

Bucky laughed again, and this time there was real amusement creeping through the bitterness. Steve turned and met Bucky's familiar crooked smile, though there was a manic edge he wasn't used to seeing there. "We're not sure how to answer your question, Steve," Bucky said. "You see, for twenty-eight years, time has stood still. And I don't know what year it was when we came here, so I couldn't even add it up for you."

Steve sat up straight, staring at Bucky. That was an odd phrasing: when we came here. And there was something about time standing still that was important. Or was it time passing? "What do you mean? How can time stand still?"

Bucky shrugged. "The clocks are stuck on 8:15, and no one has aged a day, since we came here."

Gold interjected, "I think that's quite enough information. It's your turn to answer some questions now, Mr Rogers."

Steve held Bucky's gaze, ignoring Gold as he replied. "The last thing I remember clearly is being on a plane, but I think there were two different planes." He rubbed his temple with one hand. "I was piloting one, and it crashed into the ocean. I think I was a passenger on the other one, but I can't remember anything else."

Bucky nodded, his grin growing more manic. "Except that you know me."

Steve nodded slowly, searching in vain for some hint of recognition in Bucky's gaze. "I do."

"Wait a minute," Gold said impatiently. "How do you know him?"

"We're friends, Mr Gold," Bucky said flippantly. "Known each other all our lives, it seems." He turned away from Steve to face Gold with a narrow-eyed stare. "Are you finished interrogating my friend?"

Gold frowned. "If he's from Brooklyn, you can't very well have known each other all your lives."

Bucky leapt to his feet, and snatched the cup from Gold's fingers. "Don't you have somewhere you need to be? I think Regina was looking for you."

Gold set his cane between his knees and clasped his hands one over the other on top of it. "Yes, she was looking to make a deal, but I'm not interested."

Bucky stopped stacking the tea things on the tray, and sent a sharp look at Gold. "I see." He eyed Steve speculatively. "If Emma breaks the curse, your memories might return as well."

"I doubt it." Gold pushed himself to his feet. "I think Mr Rogers' affliction is something else altogether, and has nothing to do with the curse. Good day." He nodded to both of them, and left the room.

Steve frowned at Bucky as the sound of the front door opening and closing reached them. "Who's Emma? What curse?"


	4. Waiting Move

Bucky ignored Steve, clearing away the tea things and carrying them out of the room. Steve sighed and leaned back on the couch, closing his eyes. He was starting to wonder who was mad: him or everyone else. If he wasn't dead, then how did Bucky survive the fall from the train? His eyes snapped open. It must have been something Zola did when he had captured Bucky and experimented on him, trying to recreate the serum Erskine had given Steve. And maybe that had affected his mind, too.

Steve pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He should have gotten there sooner; he should have saved Bucky before Zola's experiments. He should have caught Bucky. He should have looked for him after he fell from the train.

"You should eat something." Steve started and looked up into Bucky's familiar, yet strange, eyes. Bucky's mouth curved into a mocking smile and he shook his head. "Despite its many benefits, tea isn't enough to keep one alive."

Steve blinked, realizing that Bucky was trying to hand him a white china plate piled with perfectly golden toast dripping with butter. Mumbling an apology and thanks, he accepted the food. The warm, slightly salty, smell tickled his nose, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since… he didn't know when he had eaten last. "Thanks, Buck."

Bucky made an annoyed sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, but Steve wasn't really listening. This was, quite possibly, the best thing he had ever eaten. Was there a professional chef hiding in the kitchen? Because Bucky didn't make perfect toast. He made good toast, but it wasn't like this. This was heaven distilled on a plate.

Too soon, the plate was empty but for a few crumbs, and Steve raised his head to find Bucky sitting in the same chair as before and watching him in that same unnervingly intense way as when he had awoken on the couch. Leaping to his feet in a burst of movement, Bucky snatched the empty plate from Steve's hands and spun away, then back. "I suppose you'll want to take a shower." He wrinkled his nose. "How long have you been wearing those clothes?" He didn't wait for an answer—not that Steve could have given him one—but continued, "There's a guest room with ensuite up the stairs, first door on the right." He tilted his head to one side, his eyes skimming Steve. "I don't think I have anything that will fit you, but there's a robe in there you can wear until I figure something out."

Steve nodded, pushing himself to his feet. "Thanks. I didn't exactly pack for this trip."

Bucky snorted and, while the edge was still there, dragging a dull blade across Steve's nerves, it wasn't as sharply ragged as it had been. "I have to run some errands, so I'll be out for awhile." He waved a hand in a careless gesture. "Make yourself at home."

Steve climbed the stairs, not quite touching a smooth wooden banister painted a white so pure and clean he was afraid to smudge it. A dark red carpet lined the steps and continued along the hallway on the second floor. The red and gold patterned walls—and even the white doors that marched along each side—seemed to absorb what little light there was, leaving everything cloaked in shadows. Turning to the right, Steve pushed open the first door and entered a room that was layered in shades of grey. It was smaller than he had expected for the scale of the house; a double bed was pushed into the corner, and another door led into the promised bathroom.

The hot water was glorious, and Steve stood with his face tilted up into the spray for a long time, trying to soak the chill out of his bones. Then he wrapped himself in the fluffy white robe he found hanging on the back of the door, surprised to find that it easily went around him one and a half times. Most robes weren't made for men his size.

And how did he know that? He pressed the fingers of one hand against his forehead. How many robes had he tried on since the serum? When had he tried on any robes, anyway? He'd been fighting a war, hadn't he? It wasn't like it was difficult to find a robe that would wrap him three or four times around before that.

He glanced at the bed, but he didn't want to sleep, not yet. Tying the robe securely, he went back downstairs. Bucky had said to make himself at home, so he went exploring.

The gleaming kitchen was huge—and empty. No chef in sight. So, either Bucky had learned a few things about making perfect toast, or the chef had left already. The kitchen was the first room he had found that wasn't dimly lit almost to the point of gloom, flooded with natural light from the large windows that stood sentinel over the sink and the breakfast table. He stood for a moment at the sink, looking out at the lush greens that enveloped the backyard, and his fingers itched for a paintbrush or pastels. How long had it been since he had drawn something? That was yet another memory that eluded him.

With a sigh, he turned away, and continued his exploration. The empty vaulted ceilings and echoing rooms spoke of a loneliness that took hold of Steve's heart and squeezed at his breath.

A crash from the front of the house spun Steve around, and he was running down the hall almost before he had thought to do so. The front door was wide open, the shards of a bloodred vase lay scattered on the floor beside an end table, and Bucky was pacing the area at the foot of the stairs like a caged animal. "That _bitch_," he growled, running his hand through his hair, leaving it in disordered spikes.

"Bucky?" Steve said uncertainly, halfway through the door from the hallway.

Bucky spun around and took a step toward Steve, his eyes glittering with malice, and Steve nearly recoiled from the blood and venom in those eyes. Then Bucky stopped and ran a hand over his face, letting out a shaky version of his bitter laugh. "Steve. I had forgotten you were here."

"What is it, Buck? What's wrong?" Steve took a step forward. He had never seen Bucky so agitated—at least, not that he could remember.

Bucky let his head fall back and sighed deeply. "I should have known better than to trust anything she said. She didn't get the title 'Evil Queen' for her charity work." His voice was a glittering blade, snipping the words off sharply.

Evil Queen? Steve took another step toward Bucky. He felt as if he was approaching a skittish animal he didn't want to spook. "Bucky?"

"She promised." Bucky met Steve's gaze, and the torment in his eyes was like a knife in Steve's heart. "She promised."

Steve tentatively put a hand on Bucky's arm, almost expecting him to shake it off. "Who promised?"

But Bucky just stood there, a fire growing behind his eyes. "I'm not done with her. She will pay for what she's done."

Steve tightened his fingers and gave Bucky a little shake. "Bucky! What _happened_?"

Blinking, Bucky frowned at Steve as if he had just noticed he was there. He pulled his arm out of Steve's grip, and took a step back. One eyebrow climbed toward his hairline, and he grinned. "Right. I brought you something to wear. Not that you don't look just fine in that." He waved a hand toward Steve with a flourish.

"Uh…" Steve wordlessly accepted the clothes Bucky handed him. Zola had done this to Bucky, had broken his mind. A fierce anger rose up within Steve, nearly choking him.

Bucky grinned recklessly, then leaned forward, eyeing Steve thoughtfully. "Did you remember anything today?"

Steve slowly shook his head. "Did you?"

Bucky laughed shortly. "Nope. But everyone else did." He tilted his head to one side, his eyes narrowed. "I guess Gold was right. The curse wasn't your problem."

"The curse?" Hadn't he asked this question before, with no response? And, in this mood, Bucky would likely ignore him again.

But Bucky was nodding. "Yes. It's broken." He spun around with his arms out, his coat tails swirling around him. "The savior broke the curse, and all is as it should be." He stopped and let his hands fall to his sides, his smile slipping from his face. "Except it's not." He turned on his heel, and walked away, calling back over his shoulder, "I have another errand to run tonight. You can tag along if you like. But put some clothes on first."

Steve blinked and looked down at the bundle in his arms. "Right."


	5. Flight Square

The night air was fresh and clean, filling Steve's lungs with the scent of flowers and trees. He wanted to close his eyes and just breathe, but Bucky was climbing into a big black car and Steve didn't want to be left behind. Not again. Sliding into the passenger seat, he leaned back into the soft, rich-smelling leather as Bucky shifted gears. The engine hummed, vibrating in his bones as the car rolled forward, Bucky's hands on the gear shift and steering wheel calm, belying the tension in his shoulders.

Bucky grinned, flashing Steve a quick glance as he turned the car onto the road. "Like what you see?" There was a challenging edge to his voice.

Realizing he had been staring, Steve felt heat rise to his cheeks; he turned away, lifting his shoulders inside the borrowed shirt—a worn blue cotton button up that pulled a bit across the shoulders, not quite big enough for him. His lips formed the word 'no' but he said nothing. He was thankful Bucky was _alive_, of course—that was a painful hope he'd given up long ago, believing it impossible. But this wasn't exactly the Bucky he remembered—so much had changed; what could he say? I'm sorry I let you fall. I'm sorry I didn't go after you. I'm sorry I didn't stop Zola. 'Sorry' was just so inadequate. He let his forehead rest against the cold glass, his breath clouding the window. "Where are we going?"

A soft, slightly mocking, laugh answered him. "You'll see."

A few minutes later, the car slid to a stop outside a large building. Steve peered through the darkness, his serum-enhanced night vision picking out white-edged stairs leading up to a red brick building with a large sign that proclaimed, "Storybrooke General Hospital." He frowned. Bucky had brought him to the _hospital_?

Bucky switched off the engine. "Are you coming?"

Steve turned and met his sardonic gaze. "What are we doing here?"

Bucky's eyes glittered through his lashes and his lips curved in a humourless smile. "This is a rescue mission, Steve. We're here to free a prisoner." He pushed open his door and stepped out of the car.

Steve followed, his thoughts chasing each other like a flurry of snow caught in a draft. A prisoner? In a hospital? A vague sense of déja vu washed over him.

Bucky's steps were confident as he entered the quiet building, passing down dark, empty hallways. Steve's eyes flickered back and forth as he trailed after him, his nostrils twitching at the uniquely hospital scent of cleaners and medicines, with an undercurrent of dust. Shouldn't there be staff here, even at night? And since when did they turn the lights off in the halls? He remembered hospital visits from before the serum, when his asthma had woken him gasping for breath, and the glaring lights had stabbed at his eyes. Here, soft shadows cloaked everything, broken only by the moonlight filtering through the windows; and heavy silence cloaked the halls like a thick blanket, broken only by the sound of their footsteps.

Bucky stopped at an empty reception desk and grabbed something that jingled like keys, then turned down a hallway marked "Psychiatric Ward." Steve blinked. Wait a minute. Was the prisoner Bucky planned to release a mental patient? Suddenly, this seemed like a very bad idea. "Bucky!" he hissed, coming up beside him. "This prisoner—why was he locked up?"

Bucky's teeth flashed in the moonlight as he turned toward Steve. "_She_ fell in the love with the wrong man, and made a powerful enemy in doing so."

"So, she isn't dangerous then?" Though it sounded like this 'powerful enemy' probably was someone to watch out for.

"Steve, trust me." Bucky clapped a hand on Steve's shoulder. "We're the good guys here. We'll be heroes for freeing her."

Steve nodded. He'd been called a hero before, many times, but since Bucky fell, he hadn't felt like a hero. The true heroes were the men in the trenches, the ordinary people who stepped up and did what was right.

And then Stark had strutted around, wearing the title of hero as if he deserved it, when Steve had known guys worth ten of him. Wait. Steve shook his head. No—Howard never did that. That was somebody else. But the memory slipped from his grasp like melting ice.

Bucky had stopped in front of a door, so Steve brushed away the remnants of memory. He was trying a ring of keys one after the other in the lock. The fourth one clicked and he cast a grin over his shoulder at Steve as the handle turned. "Here we are."

The room was small, with one high window in the plain brick walls. A girl sat up as they entered. She perched on a narrow cot against one wall, her dark auburn hair falling back from clear blue eyes that narrowed at sight of them. "Jefferson?"

"Ah, you have your memories back." Bucky held a hand out to her. "Lovely. This is Steve. Come with us."

She hesitantly took his hand and stood up. "Why are you doing this?"

Bucky rested his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. "I need your help to do something that I can't. Find Mr Gold. All you have to do is tell him where you've been, and that Regina locked you up."

She shook her head, frowning. "Wait… what?"

That was exactly Steve's thoughts too. Gold? Why on earth would _he _help?

"It's very important." Bucky squeezed her shoulders. "Mr Gold's gonna protect you, but you _have _to tell him Regina locked you up." He nodded. "He's gonna know what to do. You understand?"

She shook her head. "Who is Mr Gold?"

Bucky laughed softly, shaking his head. "Of course. You wouldn't know." He bent his head toward her, his voice nearly a whisper. "His real name is Rumplestiltskin."

Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. "Yes." Her voice was faint. "I will find him." She looked over Bucky's shoulder and her eyes met Steve's. "Thank you."

Bucky stepped back and sketched a courtly bow as she left the room. He grinned at Steve, his back to the window, the moonlight casting shadows across his face. "And now we are heroes."

Steve shook his head helplessly. "Buck… we can't just let her wander off on her own. She doesn't even have shoes!" He stepped out into the hallway, and called after her, "Wait!"

She turned around, her face in the moonlight nearly as pale as her hospital gown. "Yes?"

Walking toward her, he gestured firmly for Bucky to follow. "We have a car. We'll drive you."

* * *

_A/N: 'Flight Square' (or 'Escape Square') is a chess term that refers to a square to which a piece can move which allows it to escape attack._


End file.
